Still Waiting
by Pit Viper of Doom
Summary: He'd promised to wait, so he'll wait for as long as it takes, broken promises or not.
1. Reunion

As nations went, precious few could claim to be more spineless than Italy Veneziano.

He would be the first to admit it. Where others talked big and rarely took a hit lying down, Italy wheedled and cajoled and whined, and generally took _everything_ lying down, be it a kick in the face, a death threat, or a strongly-worded letter. The last time the nation himself had honestly participated in a fight, much less won one, was a distant memory; now he took pains to treat them like a third coming of the Plague. Those old wars had been awful enough, but the one he now found himself in, the aptly but rather unimaginatively named "Great War," was frankly beyond him. "It's just a summer war," they said. "We'll be home for Christmas," they said. Showed how much humans knew. They could clamor for war and violence all they wanted, but Italy wouldn't throw himself into that sort of danger for all the pasta the world could give him. (Besides, pasta from anywhere that wasn't Italy probably wasn't worth his time, anyway.)

Hence the tomato box he was now hiding in.

His bosses knew where he was, in any case. In fact, one of them (whose exact name and position escaped him, because honestly he had more important things to worry about, like not being shot) had spent a good amount of time kicking the crate uselessly, demanding to know if the nation intended to stay in a wooden crate in the middle of the woods for the entirety of the war.

Well... _yes_.

That was kind of the _point_.

Courage may not have been one of Italy's virtues, but patience definitely was.

Italy huddled miserably in his box, his knees drawn up close to his chin, his lower back bent awkwardly. It was cramped and uncomfortable, and his stomach was growling with hunger (when was the last time he'd eaten?), but he made no move to change his position. Anything was better than being out there, in the line of fire, or in those awful trenches. He'd spent a good amount of time in those trenches, and however cramped, dark, and lacking in food his box was, at least it was dry and vermin-free. Rats got so big when they ate people, and Italy hated rats almost as much as he hated fighting. They made him think of the Plague, and of the scoldings he used to receive from Mr. Austria whenever the stern older nation found them loose in the house–

_It was a mouse, the furiously blushing young nation explained, twiddling his thumbs bashfully. He'd been chasing a mouse and he'd been so distracted that he hadn't noticed it was Italy's skirts the little rodent had scurried under, and he didn't mean anything by it, honest, and he was very, very sorry and it would never happen again, cross his heart, and Italy understood and wasn't mad at him, right? A beaming Italy simply giggled and thanked him for helping him catch mice. He hugged him, too, because he so loved to see Holy Rome turn even redder–_

Italy started, accidentally banging his head against the lid of the crate as he came abruptly out of his daydream. Tears springing to his eyes, he rubbed the now tender spot ruefully. The pain was making his eyes water, not the memory. He'd cried all his tears already, a lifetime ago for a human.

It still hurt. The soreness in his head was already fading, but the dull ache in his chest had never really gone away.

Italy curled up even tighter in the small space, hugging his knees and pressing his chin to them almost painfully. It had been lonely in the big, empty mansion when Holy Rome left, it had been even lonelier when he found out he wasn't coming back, and now, cowering in a crate all by himself while war raged in the distance, he might as well have been the only person in the world. He buried his face in his knees and tried not to whimper.

To make matters worse, there was a rumor going around that one of the Central Powers was on its way to invade him, which was what drove him to stay in the crate through hunger and loneliness. As if this wasn't a guarantee of death by itself, the prospective invader was supposed to be Germany. He'd never met Germany himself, but he did know for a fact that Germany was Prussia's brother.

_Prussia's_ brother.

Italy remembered Prussia well from the years he'd spent living in Holy Rome's house, though the other nation had only made brief visits. Prussia was powerful, arrogant, bloodthirsty, and pretty much everything that Italy wasn't. He hadn't known that Prussia had a brother, but if the two had anything in common, then Italy didn't want to risk leaving the safety of his box. Trembling from head to foot, he shifted in his hiding place and tried to make himself as small as possible.

It wasn't the first time he'd ever wished he could be brave like Holy Rome.

Footsteps in the grass outside startled him, and he covered his mouth to muffle a whimper. It was him, Germany. He just knew it. There was a big, scary nation out there, and if Italy made a single noise, he was going to come over here, open the box, break his knees, and shoot him. Or maybe he'd just shoot him without even opening the box. You could never tell with some countries.

Or maybe, just maybe, if Italy was very, very quiet, he'd think nothing of a tomato crate in the woods, and he'd go away.

The footsteps came closer, rustling in the grass. Italy shook uncontrollably, kept his hand clamped over his mouth, and tried to focus on breathing through his nose. Staying alive was his only goal at this point, and breathing was an important part of staying alive, wasn't it? A pulse was another, equally important part, but at the moment he was sure his pounding heartbeat could be heard for miles.

_Go away... please, just go away..._

The sound of heavy boots on grass halted just outside of his hiding place. Italy's eyes were wide in the darkness of the crate, his heart practically in his throat.

Something hard and solid clacked against the surface of the crate, and Italy felt his nerves go to pieces. In the previous tense moments, he had built up terrified energy like a rabbit about to bolt. With nowhere to run, it all went to his head and his mouth, and he simultaneously performed two of the things he did best: he panicked, and he talked.

His mouth was barely under his control anymore as he babbled in terror, wheedling, fibbing, and begging, anything to keep the person outside from opening his box. He was barely aware of what, exactly, was coming out of his mouth, not that it mattered much to him. Despite his best efforts, his hiding place shook and shifted, and he clouted his head against the lid again. There was an ominous cracking, and suddenly sunlight was shining down on him as the lid was torn away. Italy sat bolt upright, eyes shut to keep from crying with fear as he continued his shrill, mindless stream of excuses, apologies, and pleas. Tears still forced their way past his closed eyelids.

His heart nearly stopped altogether when he felt himself be lifted out of the crate by the back of his uniform. The top button dug painfully into his throat, and he wailed aloud, his hands clasped beseechingly at his still-unseen enemy. Pride? What use was pride if he was about to die? (Even if it would be nice to see Holy Rome and Grandpa Rome again—_no, don't think like that, Italy, don't think like that_.)

All at once, the invader's unfamiliar voice, deep and clipped and heavily accented, cut through his words and his thoughts.

"Let me ask you a question. Are you a descendant of the great Rome?"

Italy's frightened wailing halted abruptly, and his terror gave way to hope. He opened his eyes a crack, and though tears still blurred his vision, he could just make out the shape of the tall figure in front of him. This nation knew Grandpa Rome. He even called him "great." That was a good sign. That was a very good sign.

"Wait, you know Grandpa Rome?" he asked, not yet daring to lift his hands to wipe the tears from his eyes (that might spook him, and that might mean getting shot). "I'm his grandson, Italy. I'm just a nice guy who loves pasta and pizza—" (Maybe if Germany got to know him, he wouldn't shoot him? It was worth a try.) "I'm so relieved. I thought you were mean and scary, but it looks like we can get along just fine." Abruptly, Germany released him, and in his immense relief he crumpled to a kneeling position beside the open crate. He smiled tentatively. "Maybe we can be frie—?"

_Whack_.

The butt end of Germany's gun connected with his jaw, accompanied by the hulking nation's booming, enraged voice. "_Go to hell, you pasta-loving bastard!_"

Italy was knocked to the ground by the blow, his head narrowly missing the box as he landed flat on his back, his hand flying to his face. The relief he had felt was fading rapidly, reducing him to trembling and whimpering on the ground as Germany towered over him.

_He's gonna shoot me, he's gonna shoot me, he's gonna shoot me, what do I do, what do I do?_ The tears in his eyes spilled over, and he wiped them away instinctively, allowing himself his first clear view of Germany.

Italy's whimpering ended with a high-pitched squeak. He froze where he was, his hand still clutching the side of his face. It would probably bruise later, but that was the last thing on his mind because _oh dear God, am I dead already?_

The hapless Italy stared numbly up at the nation above him, his mouth half open with shock.

_No_.

It... it couldn't be. It just... _couldn't_.

Not after...

With all the...

Big brother France even _said_...

And yet...

And yet it couldn't _not_ be.

Anyone else would have passed it off as insignificant similarities, coincidences, maybe shared relatives, if that. Over a hundred years had passed, after all. Memories faded, faces changed. Anyone else would have called it wishful thinking.

But Italy? Italy was many things, not all of them good or useful, but he was an _artist_. If there was one thing he knew, it was detail. And trade. But mostly detail.

And there was a certain face he'd drawn enough times to have each individual centimeter of it memorized.

The shape of the jaw here and there, the way blonde hair framed that fair-skinned face, and Italy's artist's eye could clearly picture what he would look like if, rather than combed back from his face, his golden-blond hair was allowed to fall loosely over his forehead, right above those clear blue eyes.

But at the same time, Italy was reluctant to admit, so much was different. His brow was fixed in a permanent frown, and those eyes... The last time he'd seen those eyes, they were warm and happy and maybe just a little bit wet (though Italy would have let him pretend they weren't). Now they were flat, cold, and barely readable.

It was not the joyful reunion that Italy had once imagined as a child. It was that dull ache in his heart that refused to go away. It was a painful, confusing tangle of fear and uncertainty and held-back tears. Staring up into his supposed enemy's cold, considering face, Italy felt sick to his stomach and dared not speak the words on his tongue.

_Holy Rome? Is that you?_

_...What happened?_


	2. I Know You

He was not shot in the end, nor was he even further harmed. Instead, Italy was marched out of his familiar country, and the nervous nation found himself the prisoner of a strange enemy who, by rights, should not have been. Whenever Germany's back was turned, Italy sat on the floor and watched him, confused and hungry and maybe still a little frightened. Once he was sure the other nation really, honestly had no intention of shooting him, he even ventured to ask him questions, most of which were answered curtly.

"You _are_ Germany, right?"

"Ja."

"Okay, just wanted to make sure. Do you like pasta?"

"Sure, why not."

"You're sure you're not going to kill me?"

"Ja."

"How long have you been a country?"

"Since 1806."

1806. The year that big brother France had visited him, told him his loved one wouldn't be returning, and asked him to do the impossible and forget him. Italy suppressed a shudder at the same time that his heart gave a little leap at this piece of knowledge. Italy could put two and two together; after all, skill with business required skill with math.

But could Germany really be Holy Rome? As crazy and unbelievable as it was, he _had_ to be. Italy was sure of it. No matter how long it had been since Holy Rome had left for war, his face was permanently branded in Italy's memory. In fact, it was so familiar that it now hurt to look at him for long, because so far, that face was the only familiar thing about him. What truly scared Italy was the possibility that there was a good reason for that.

Was he just so lonely and scared and desperate for a friend in this war that he was seeing one that wasn't there?

A clatter and scrape broke through Italy's increasingly miserable thoughts (completely invisible behind his glazed, foolish expression) as Germany sullenly placed a plate of food on the floor beside him and nudged it closer before stalking off.

For a moment Italy simply stared at it, blinking. His stomach growled, but he barely heard the noise over the sound of a half-forgotten memory.

"_I'm so hungry. ...Hold on... is that food? Is it there for me? ...Thank you, whoever you are!"_

Italy ate, turning his back to the direction Germany had gone, just in case the other nation returned in time to see his face. The liverwurst wasn't quite as good as Italian sausage, and the potatoes were just undercooked enough to be slightly crunchy.

It was delicious.

* * *

><p>Captivity had never been much of a problem for Italy. It wasn't that it rarely happened; it simply happened so much that it barely fazed him anymore. He'd spent hundreds of years at Austria's beck and call, after all, and as long as he was Germany's prisoner of war, all he had to do was sit quietly like a good little captive. In fact, it was fairly similar to staying in a box in the middle of the woods all day. No one was going to bother him while he was here, and the only real differences were things like food and a comfortable place to sit. So what if said food wasn't up to Italy's standards? It was edible, it was regular, and he could eat it without nursing a crick in his back.<p>

If he could just eat it without feeling sick to his stomach, it would be almost perfect.

Germany, or whatever he was called now, treated him like a stranger, and even to Italy it was obvious that his former friend no longer knew him. He knew _of_ him, he know who he was and who his grandfather was (and that didn't mean anything because _everyone_ knew that), but he did nothing to hint that he recognized Italy as a friend.

As a love.

As the little boy in green that he'd _promised_ to return to when the war was over, but then he _didn't_, and even though he was here now, _where was he?_

As the child who'd waited so patiently (asking Mr. Austria only once a day when Holy Rome was coming back was still patient, wasn't it?) for _years_ for Holy Rome to come home, only to be told that he'd never see him again. Now Holy Rome was here, but when Italy looked at him, a total stranger glared back.

And yet, _he was alive_, and that fact alone made everything so much more complicated, when "complicated" wasn't something Italy dealt with well.

So Italy met Germany's sullen, irritated glares with the same dopey smiles he put on for everyone else, partly to pacify his captor, but mostly because if he didn't keep that smile pasted over his face, he would burst into tears. If he did, then Germany might ask him why, and Italy couldn't answer that question when he wasn't sure himself.

_Because I've missed you so much, and I've been waiting for you for so long, and I can't tell you how happy I am that you're okay._

_Because I've missed you so much, and I've been waiting for you for so long, but... you still aren't back yet._

Both answers would have been honest. Italy was at a loss as to which he would have used.

It wasn't a total loss; no, it wasn't a loss at all. After a century without hope of ever seeing Holy Rome again, he finally had him back, or as close to back as he could get. So, fine. Italy could accept terms that were less than favorable to him. He'd been doing it long enough.

He was proud of himself, really. After centuries of taking orders from much stronger nations, he hadn't much practice in making executive decisions for himself, but here was, making one right now. If Holy Rome didn't remember him, then Italy would stay by him and rebuild that precious friendship brick by brick until he did. And he would. He had to.

He just... he _had_ to.

And until then, well, if Germany really was Holy Rome, then it'd be easy for them to be friends, wouldn't it?

It was settled, then. That wasn't so hard.

Still, when Germany interrupted one of his many naps by demanding to know why he never tried to escape, he was caught by surprise, just a little bit. It was okay, though; talking was right up there with eating, drawing, and managing business as one of the things Italy did best. Actually _saying_ anything was another story entirely, but in this case it worked in his favor; while his mouth rattled off a list of excuses about food and security, he gave his real answer privately, silently, in his head.

_I waited for you to come home for fifty years, and I thought you were dead for a hundred more. Why on earth would I want to leave you now?_

And when his captor, in a fit of irritation, opened the door to let him escape, he did so just to prove that he could if he wanted to. Of course, he came right back, just to prove that he didn't.


End file.
